


He's an Angry Elf

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I blame Fleur, M/M, This is pure Christmas crack..., Tumblr Prompt, i am not to blame for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John grumbled under his breath as another, now crying, child was handed back to his parents.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>“What, John?” Sherlock waved a lazy hand at the line. “He was going to learn that Santa wasn’t real at some point. Why not learn now?”</i></p><p>
<i>“Because they’re fucking children!” John hissed.</i></p><p>
<i>“Language, John. There are children present,” Sherlock smirked as a little girl was perched on his knee.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	He's an Angry Elf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperOreoMan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperOreoMan/gifts).



> SuperOreoMan asked for Sherlock as a bad mall Santa and John as an elf... I make no apologies for this.
> 
> Original tumblr prompt here: http://superoreoman.tumblr.com/post/135971760577/no-no-nooooo-but-can-you-imagine-terrible-mall

“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John grumbled under his breath as another, now crying, child was handed back to his parents.

“What, John?” Sherlock waved a lazy hand at the line. “He was going to learn that Santa wasn’t real at some point. Why not learn now?”

“Because they’re fucking children!” John hissed.

“Language, John. There are children present,” Sherlock smirked as a little girl was perched on his knee.

John glared for a moment then took a step back as he recognized the change of color in the little girl’s cheeks.

“Hello, Pipa. What would you like for Christmas.”

There wasn’t even a proper retching sound as a tidal volume of vomit erupted onto the floor. Sherlock cringed and tucked his feet back from the projectile mess. John clamped down on his lower lip to keep from bursting out laughing. “Clean up at the North Pole,” he called as Sherlock handed the child back to her parents and gingerly sidestepped the mess.

“That is disgusting,” Sherlock muttered. “Whether she wants it or not, her parents are clearly trying to give her diabetes.”

“Stop it,” John swatted him. “We were due a break anyway. Might as well be now. Before someone else vomits on you in disgust.”

Sherlock shuddered and trailed after John towards the break room. “That wasn’t disgust. That was over a dozen Christmas biscuits, an obscene amount of chocolate, and a cup of egg nog.”

John winced. “You might have been right about the diabetes then.”

Sherlock snorted. “Give it time.”

He made two quick mugs of tea and set them on the table before dropping into one of the chairs with a merry jingle. He swatted the pompom of the Santa hat out of the way and sighed. “Any joy then finding the thieves?”

Sherlock grinned. “Any joy? My aren’t you in the festive spirit.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“You make a seriously cross elf, John.”

“And you are nearly the worst Father Christmas I’ve ever come across,” John bit back.

“Just nearly?” Sherlock fake pouted.

“Yeah, just nearly. The drunk one that dropped my sister back in… You know what,” John rubbed at the back of his neck. “Never mind. I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

Sherlock snickered.

“You still didn’t answer my question. Where are we on the thieves?”

Sherlock hummed. “There are seven, horribly common jewelry shops for the hoi polloi to purchase their chain store trinkets from in this mall. We know that four of them have been burgled, one each night for the past few days. To say that it must be an inside job ought to be unnecessary, but I wouldn’t want to overestimate your current observational skills.”

John swatted him up the backside of his head, knocking the hat loose. “Shut it.”

“You just asked me to answer your question. Do make up your mind.”

A tinny voice rumbled through the tannoy, “Paging Santa. Please return to the North Pole. Santa to the North Pole.”

Sherlock frowned and adjusted his beard and hat. “Honestly. One would think this would be an antiquated custom and far too eerie to impose upon unsuspecting children.”

“You think this is bad,” John stood and cleared the mugs. “Have you heard of ‘Elf on a Shelf’?”

Sherlock cocked a brow. “If it in any way resembles your current state, it too is alarming.”

“I didn’t pick the costume, Sherlock.”

“No, no,” Sherlock stood and straightened the artificial fluff that gave him the characteristic ‘bowl full of jelly’ belly that Father Christmas was known for. “I quite like the rouge on your cheeks. It’s a good look for you.”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “You are an irredeemable prick, you know that?”

“Smile John,” Sherlock brushed past him. “A scowl like that will scare the children. Santa’s elves mustn’t be so cross.”

“I’m not a fucking elf, Sherlock.”

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” Sherlock whispered in his ear as they reentered the artificial North Pole.

John struggled to keep a pleasant smile on his face for the next hour. In fairness, it was an hour of getting cried at, snotted on, and kicked in the shins. For a moment, he thought his shoulder was going to cramp up as he set another five year-old on Sherlock’s knee.

“Now Stella, what would you like for Christmas?" 

If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was doing nothing but listening to these kids ramble on, paying attention to their squeaky little voices and watching their faces. But he did know better.

The little girl squinted up at Sherlock. “I know Santa isn’t real.”

“Oh?” Sherlock arched a brow. “That’s a mighty large assumption given that I am here and you are currently talking to me.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t real. I said Santa isn’t.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Then why are you here?”

“Makes my parents happy,” she returned. “They seem to think Santa’s real.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I see. In that case, what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

Stella glared. “I want a chemistry set. One with real chemicals. I won’t set anything on fire.”

He studied the parents for a moment. “Unfortunately, Stella, I don’t believe that’s what your parents have purchased for you.”

“And that’s why I’m asking you, innit?”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock tried not to laugh. “I will see what I can do.”

“Tell your elf he looks angry,” Stella whispered.

Sherlock actually did laugh. “I shall.”

John huffed again. “I’m not angry.”

“Could’a fooled me.” She stuck her tongue out at John and it was probably captured for the most adorable photo of the afternoon.

John sighed and led up the next child, resisting the urge to lift him until they were next to ‘Santa.’

“You don’t look like Santa,” the little boy grumbled and crossed his arms.

“Don’t I?” Sherlock raised a brow. “If I was not Santa, how would I know where you live, Leo?”

“You don’t know where I live!” he accused, poking Sherlock in the belly. “And that’s not your real belly.”

John frowned.

Sherlock glanced up at him, “John, do you see the snowman and the gingerbread man over to the left?”

“And that’s not your real beard!” Leo continued.

John nodded. “Hard to miss.”

“Easy to miss,” Sherlock corrected, “In the middle of this holiday frippery.”

“You don’t even sound like Santa!” Leo hissed.

“Does it not look like they have a bit of excess heavy padding beneath their costumes?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” John complained. “Really? Them?”

Sherlock twisted and grinned up at John. “Yes, them.”

“Now?” John raised both brows.

“Certainly.”

“I WANT A TOY GUN FOR CHRISTMAS!” Leo shouted.

Sherlock set him firmly onto the ground. “Frankly, I suspect you should want that your parents get that divorce instead. It will make you all much happier.”

“Sherlock!”

“What?!”

“Inappropriate!”

“It’s true, John!” Sherlock straightened and glared. “And they’re running.”

“What?” John spun to see both the snowman and the gingerbread man making a break for it. “You have got to be bloody kidding me!”

“You get the snowman, I’ll get the gingerbread man?”

“You’re on!”

They both took off at a sprint; John trying to ignore the sound of the bells on his shoe caps and Sherlock hurrying to shed the stuffing that made his fake belly. John grumbled as their quarry split up, turning in opposite directions as they burst through the fire door. “Go on, John!” Sherlock snapped as John hesitated.

“Goddammit!” John snapped and pivoted, chasing after the snowman. It was a short enough pursuit, given that the snowman had a costume that wrapped around his calves and made a full stride impossible. John wrapped him in a headlock and wrestled him to a nearby curb. “Stop fighting me!”

“Mommy? What’s that elf doing to Frosty?!”

“Help!” the snowman shouted. “Someone help!”

John handcuffed him to the nearest bike rack. “Police!” he flashed one of Lestrade’s badges. “This man is under arrest!” John wished it was the first time he’d done that.

One of the nearby children started to cry.

“John!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” John tore off, leaving the snowman cuffed in the middle of the block to chase the flash of red and white that turned down the alleyway. Sherlock was sprinting full speed, his coat open and flapping behind him like some sort of absurd Christmas cape. Thank goodness he had braces to keep his Santa trousers up, because without the belly, they were far too loose. John skidded around the corner in time to catch sight of Sherlock disappearing down another side street. He’d have to cut them off.

With a curse and a stumble, he tore the shoe covers off and tossed them aside, relieving himself of the jingle that had been incessantly following all day. Then he glanced both ways and made a decision. Thankfully, it turned out to be the correct one, and in a moment, he was creeping up behind the gingerbread man.

Sherlock had seen him. The acknowledgement was a silent and nearly invisible one, but John knew. And Sherlock grinned at the gingerbread man, his Santa beard twisted askew and tugged beneath his chin. “How is it the saying goes? Run run as fast as you can?”

The gingerbread man snickered. “Is that your version of a surrender, Mr. Holmes?”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock raised a brow nearly high enough to disappear beneath the snowy white lining of his hat.

John had waited until he was in a good position, which also happened to be just before the gingerbread man lunged at Sherlock. But his takedown was both efficient and effective, and in a flash, he had a knee on the man’s back with one arm twisted firmly and painful high between his shoulder blades.

“Get offa me, you fucking elf!”

John frowned. “Shut it!”

“SHERLOCK?!”

John glanced up, raising both brows in question. “Did you ring Greg?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Why would I do that?” He raised his voice to carry down the alleyway. “Down here, Lestrade!”

“Midget bastard!” the gingerbread man hissed.

“I’m not a fucking elf!” John snapped.

“Fucking fairy hellspawn!”

“Oi!” John growled. “Call me an elf one more fucking time.” He twisted the man’s arm fractionally further up his back.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Not so much a gingerbread man as a ginger-bad man, wouldn’t you say, John?”

John tried to keep a straight face but failed, doubling over and giggling at the awful turn of phrase. “Stop, Sherlock, that’s sodding terrible.”

“What in the holiday hell is this?” Greg barked. Sherlock grinned as John shrugged up a shoulder. Lestrade stared, taking in the state of them: Sherlock’s half stripped down Santa, and John’s irritated version of an elf. He managed to maintain a serious glare for about fifteen seconds before he started laughing. “How did I know it was you two? God help me!”

“Uh… Copper’s intuition?” John offered with a wry smile.

“I get a call that Santa and an elf are accosting Frosty the snowman and Christmas biscuit…” Lestrade trailed off. “Where did you get the handcuffs?”

Sherlock glanced at John. John shrugged again. “I like to keep a pair handy.”

“Santa’s little helper,” Sherlock hummed.

John gave him a filthy smile. “You can sit on my lap later and tell me what you want for Christmas.”

“Get him offa me!”

Lestrade sighed as he stooped to take over from John. “Do I have a key to the cuffs or am I going to need to bolt cutters to get Frosty free of the bike rack?”

“Should do,” John straightened and rolled his shoulders. “They’re yours.”

“You two are awful.” There wasn’t hint of malice behind the insult. “Want to tell me why we’re arresting them?”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock’s face grew serious. “I’m sure you’re aware of the string of jewel thefts this week, all originating from the nearby mall. Obviously an inside job. Clearly perpetrators with no taste and little skill to speak of, or they’d have chosen a more productive target. The holiday rush makes costumed attendants unremarkable and generally ignored at closing time. One would assume they belong or they could even go unnoticed in a display until the doors are locked. They made the mistake of leaving behind bits of costume felt and artificial snow in the latest robbery. You won’t have to search hard to find their loot. They are, after all, horrifyingly uncreative.”

“Marvelous,” John muttered.

“No, what’s marvelous is the sight of you running in those tights and short-shorts,” Sherlock corrected without missing a beat.

John flushed out to the fake, tipped ears he was wearing. “Sherlock.”

Greg groaned. “Right. Enough. I’ll take care of the two of them if you both promise to come fill out the paperwork.”

“We’ll follow behind you,” Sherlock said airily. “Wouldn’t want to cause a fuss, showing up at the Met like this.”

“It would be a Christmas miracle…” Greg muttered.

“Ho Ho Ho,” John giggled.

“And God bless us, everyone,” Sherlock grinned.


End file.
